


Turn In Your Arms

by irisbleufic, procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Hold Fast [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angels vs. Demons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Challenges, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Demons, Don’t copy to another site, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fallen Angels, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hastur Is A Hot Mess, Humor, M/M, Modern Retelling, Mutual Pining, References to the Child Ballads, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17858210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: The gates of St. James’s Park were locked by the time they arrived, but such a barrier posed no obstacle. They cleared the bars with a thought, passing through like ghosts.“Let there be light,” Aziraphale murmured. The walkway ahead was cast in a bluish glow.Crowley hissed, recoiling slightly from what lay a short distance ahead. “They’re here already.”Aziraphale took several steps forward, squinting. The bridge wasn’t quite visible, but the reddish aura emanating from the vicinity of the water was unmistakable.“Stay behind me,” he insisted, continuing to walk. “Under no circumstances take the lead.”With a touch of weary sarcasm, Crowley chuckled. “Get thee behind me, Satan, is that it?”[Now complete!Be advised that the rating's between M and E.  Thanks to all who wanted to see us work together again; our first collab ishere.]





	1. TUESDAY, 19 AUGUST 1997

Crowley’s fit of unwarranted moodiness had persisted all evening, which made for rather less amicable drinking conversation than Aziraphale preferred. Something had to be done about it, and in short order, too, before he tipped into maudlin.

“I’m not having this,” Aziraphale said, sobering up with a wince. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Crowley didn’t look pleased about being made to sober up, too, but he did it anyway.

“The first drive I took alone,” he began, in the tone of voice that Aziraphale had come to associate with abject terror, “after, uh, what happened seven years ago next week…”

Aziraphale drew breath to comment, but Crowley cut him off, each sibilant a hiss.

“I received a _message_ , angel. Do I have to remind you that’s...not great?”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped into his stomach, a frustratingly mortal reaction. “A message?”

“It went something like—” Crowley’s expression waxed even more pained, doubtless a sign that he remembered the transmission in more detail than he’d like. “ _At the end of seven years, you’ll pay a tithe to Hell. Make no mistake, no bargain; it will be yourself._ ”

Aziraphale reached across the table and grasped Crowley’s hands. His elbow knocked against an empty wine bottle, and it crashed to the floor. 

Crowley flinched, his pulse ratcheting up under Aziraphale’s fingers. Never a good sign by far.

“My dear boy, why didn’t you tell me?” Aziraphale implored. “At least I can offer assistance.”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Crowley’s hands were cold, colder than they’d ever been, and they trembled slightly. He huffed out a breath. “I didn’t want to worry you. You must’ve been right about that spark of goodness in me, eh?”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath through his teeth. “It would’ve worried me less to have had seven years to find a way to help you than a _week_.”

Crowley hesitated. “I’ve already found the way. And I’ve realized you’re the only one who can do it.”

Backtracking to the message itself, Aziraphale blurted, “As in _you_ will be the sacrifice?”

Nodding morosely, Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers before hesitantly releasing them.

“It used to be a regular thing. Back in the old days, I mean. It sort of fell out of fashion there for a handful of millennia, but it was one of your worse punishments for cocking up an assignment. Come to think of it, it probably fell out of fashion because there hasn’t been much _to_ mess up for ages, right? I’ve scarcely had to do my job, what with humans having made me all but obsolete. How’s that for irony? Anyway, seven years from the failure—just to draw out the agony, you understand—you’ve got to turn up at the appointed place and. _Well_.”

 _There’s a tale like this somewhere_ , Aziraphale thought. _Surely it isn’t based in truth?_

“It sounds dreadfully final,” he said instead, “so how is it that you came up with a solution?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Crowley said. “Humans figured it out. There’s this old song that goes—”

“Ballad 39A, of course,” Aziraphale sighed, his memory inconveniently dredging up the reference. “ _The English and Scottish Popular Ballads_. One wishes Mr. Child had done more to preserve the melodies as well.”

“Would you please focus?” Crowley snapped. “Ssso, does...does that mean you know…”

Aziraphale pondered the only plot of _Tam Lin_ he could reasonably recall under duress.

“You’re not a fae-cursed—excuse me, Hell-cursed—mortal knight, and I’m no maid carrying your child.” Aziraphale had to suppress a shudder at the thought. “As much as I’m determined to help, what makes you think I’m even remotely up to the task?”

Crowley spent the next thirty seconds staring uselessly down at his hands. He had the look of somebody who couldn’t quite articulate something important. He finally looked up, and for once Aziraphale almost wished he’d left on his sunglasses.

“I have to take that risk, don’t I?” he said with a bitter laugh. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a lover—or will ever have, and it goes both ways. Friends, minus what humans would call benefits.”

“If this fails because I’m not what the cursebreaking calls for,” Aziraphale said quietly, “then I’d never forgive myself. Nasty of them, but clever, don’t you think—writing in the stipulation that the rescuer be a companion our kind so rarely acquires?”

“Now you’re getting it,” said Crowley, sarcastically. “Always knew you had it in you. Bastard.”

At wits’ end, Aziraphale pushed away from the table and rose, heading toward the shop floor proper. He heard Crowley scramble to catch up, swearing under his breath as the toe of his boot clipped the bottle Aziraphale had knocked over.

“What in Go—Sa— _argh_ ,” Crowley groused, catching up to him in the _Folklore_ section. “What are you doing? I doubt you’ll find anything in the stacks that we don’t already know. What are you going to do, read at them in the hope they’ll get bored and call it off?”

“If I’m to do this, and do it _right_ ,” Aziraphale insisted, setting two fingers on the volume’s crumbling spine, “I’ll be damned if I go in unprepared.” He took down Child’s messy compendium and flipped through it, scanning lines as he went. “First of all, I doubt they’ve told you to go to Carteraugh or Carter Hall, because—”

“It’s only a metaphor,” Crowley said, his arms folded, leaning heavily with his back against the shelves. “They like to make it a place that has meaning for you, just to be cruel.”

Slow-dawning horror was all that Aziraphale could process, not least because his eyes had finally fallen on the lines most relevant. Holding onto a shapeshifter wasn’t so difficult for their sort, and hadn’t he been doing it for thousands of years? No, the catch was—

“There will always be consequences, angel,” Crowley said, low and pained. “Sometimes the stories are true.”

“Nearness of water,” Aziraphale murmured, “in a place you love. Oh, my dear. Cruel indeed.”


	2. WEDNESDAY, 20 AUGUST 1997

Aziraphale found it ironic how unremarkable they must have seemed. Two gentlemen (in a manner of speaking) strolling through St. James’s Park, one wearing a camelhair coat and carrying a book much worse for wear, the other in a fashionable suit and sunglasses.

If any stranger passed close enough to hear their conversation, they’d think that the two gentlemen were discussing poetry. Indeed, the battered book was Aziraphale’s copy of _The English and Scottish Popular Ballads_ , open to the relevant page.

“An adder, most definitely,” Aziraphale mused, turning between two pages of the ballad. “Given the importance of water, the final form will be fire of some type. I suppose wearing gloves with fireproofing would rather defeat the point.” He glanced at Crowley. “What was your choir?”

Crowley stumbled and made a disbelieving sound. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“One of Tam Lin’s forms is a lion. It might refer to one of the faces of a cherub.” Aziraphale turned the page back and forth, considering whether it was necessary to repair the pages and the damaged spine before next week’s events.

Crowley was curiously silent, staring at his feet as he walked, as if worried he might trip again. 

Aziraphale wondered if the question was taboo, if asking demons their former choir was an insult.

“I’m sorry—” Aziraphale began, but Crowley shook his head as if it were of no consequence.

“I wasn’t a cherub,” Crowley exhaled. It was a heavy sound, hitching slightly, as if he didn’t have enough air in his lungs. “But there’s a chance I’ll be forced into some kind of ethereal form.”

Aziraphale handed the book to Crowley and fished a notebook out of his coat pocket. He didn’t remember bringing along a pen, but suddenly there was one. He flipped through the notebook until he found the page, and wrote _angelic form?_ underneath _serpent_.

“There’s also that…thing.” Crowley gestured. “Maggoty thing. You might get an armful of that.”

Aziraphale forced himself not to shudder and wrote that down, too. Desperate times indeed.

Crowley leaned over his shoulder. “ _Hold me fast and fear me not_. I’m working under the assumption that’s literal, so I hope you are, too.”

Aziraphale nodded. They were approaching the Blue Bridge from Marlborough Gate side. He stopped walking. “Here would be best. Better than the bank, what with the waterfowls’...mess.”

“The best place for the confrontation?” Crowley asked. “Angel, I don’t think we get to pick where they set up shop. Be ready for anywhere.”

“Seems likely, though. Your people always were ones to stand on ceremony, were they not?”

“Depends entirely on who they send. Whether they’ve got a flair for the dramatic or someone who’s just no-nonsense. Let’s hope for Dagon.”

“Er, right. Then we should be prepared for every possibility.”

“Then every possibility includes that the head-of-mission will bring, uh, the peanut gallery.”

“What other demons get sent to Earth? My memory’s foggy.”

“I can think of two who’d love nothing so much as to see me get what’s coming. _Think_.”

“Hastur and Ligur,” Aziraphale said gravely, remembering what Crowley had told him about the events on his side of the failed Apocalypse. 

“If humans have got it right, which I suspect they do, the so-called fairy queen’s got a retinue. I was never dragged into a punishment like this, what with my assignment up here.”

“Fairy queen, fairy queen…do you know any demonesses that might fit the bill?”

Crowley started to count off on one hand. “Mahlat and her charming daughter, Agrat. That’s two. Lilith would be understandable, don’t you think? That’s three. Any of _her_ offspring? That’s an entire legion. Dagon’s got some assistant. I can never remember her name, but she’s buried so far in his files that she’d never see light of day.”

“Not that humans ever really get the genders right linguistically speaking.” Aziraphale wrote down the names of demonesses, tapping his pen against his cheek.

Crowley stepped over to the bridge’s railing, resting his forearms on it. Considering that none of the ducks went under, he must’ve worked himself into quite a state indeed.

“Whether it’s one or an entire cohort, result’s going to be the same,” he said. “Curtains for me.”

Aziraphale flinched and dropped his pen. It skittered through the gap and into the water, which caused such a confusion amongst the ducks that Crowley straightened up a fraction.

“You mean to say you don’t think I...” Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or hurt.

Crowley shook his head. “No, I’m forgetting myself. What I mean is that your trial will be the same no matter how many of them we’re facing.”

Aziraphale tucked his notebook back in his pocket, useless with his pen in the lake like so much bread. He stepped up beside Crowley at the railing, close enough that their elbows touched.

“So long as it’s in my power,” he said, leaning into Crowley for reassurance as much as to offer it, “you won’t be going anywhere, my dear. Not if I have a say.”

Crowley bumped Aziraphale’s shoulder in kind. “Your say did us a world of good when we were at risk of losing everything. Who’s to say you can’t do it again?”

Something warm and heavy swelled in Aziraphale’s chest, but he didn’t dare put it into words. He swallowed hard, searching for any alternative that wouldn’t betray his weakness.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he replied at length. “Your say had as much to do with it as mine.”

Crowley leaned closer, his head almost resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Hold me fast and fear me not,” he repeated. “That’s all I _can_ say.” 

Aziraphale knew that it was true, that Crowley had next to no voice in the trial that awaited them.

“Then I’ll speak for us both if I must. I understand what you’re asking, my dear, and I accept.”


	3. THURSDAY, 21 AUGUST 1997

Parting with Crowley after two days of close contact had been difficult, but Aziraphale did have routine shop business that needed tending. Not that his heart was particularly in it, not when pricing some grudgingly-purchased new paperback stock was at issue. 

Adam had, in the years since their close call, shown Aziraphale the value of turning some profit.

Busy at the desk, his view of the stacks obscured from where he sat, Aziraphale couldn’t see who was to blame for his front door opening. The bell’s tinny jangle stopped him mid-stickering.

“You really have to wonder how this operation works,” whispered a familiar, mocking voice as two sets of footsteps approached, “what when the front door’s still locked at ten in the morning.”

“Not that well, I bet,” hissed a second voice, no less recognizable than the first. “Shut up. There’s form to follow here, and I fucking hate it. You wanna do the honors?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and put down the paperback, rising from his creaky swivel-chair. His two guests rounded the center banks of shelves in all their incongruous glory, eccentric fashion choices in near-direct conflict with their manifested wings.

“You might as well get on with it,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s this?”

Uriel, the shorter of the pair, pulled an official-looking scroll from the inside pocket of her bomber jacket and waved it at him. She unrolled it, and then held it out and squinted. 

“The Heavenly Host has sent us to insist that you cease and desist…” Uriel’s eyebrows scrunched in pain. “What even _is_ this? Rhyming, Gabriel? Really? You’d think it was the fourteenth century all over again. Sorry. That you cease and desist in your attempt to halt the punishment of the demon formerly known as Crawly, as it is within the bounds of Hell to punish its employees as it sees fit, blah blah _blah_. There’s a foot of this fucking thing. I’m not finishing it. TL;DR,” she concluded, pronouncing every letter in a Canadian accent, “don’t risk your ass for a demon.” 

Aziraphale gave her a withering look. “Lovely to see you, dear girl. To what honor do I owe—”

“Admirable of you to go on with the thwarting, but I can’t imagine what you believe you stand to gain.” Raphael’s grin was all teeth, and there was terrible laughter in his voice. “It’s not as if you can _convert_ him. We’re well past that, given you failed on the smiting front.”

Aziraphale sniffed. Most potential customers were put off by his intently polite glares and guilt-trips. Archangels were immune to subterfuge; he’d have to speak their language.

“I know you can’t possibly understand, and I don’t blame you for that,” he began gently, folding his hands. “The circumstances are quite...unique, ineffably so, it could be said. Dear boy, you can’t begin to _conceive_ how little this has to do with Heaven.”

Raphael gave him that scathing look that meant business no matter the situation. There was a twist of judgement to this particular version of it. 

“Oh, darling,” he purred, deceptively playful, “don’t tell me you’ve actually gone and—”

“What I’ve gone and done—or not done—is none of your earthly concern,” Aziraphale warned.

“None of my earthly concern indeed,” Raphael shot back. “There’s nothing earthly about it.”

Uriel caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She glanced between the two of them, her expression unreadable. “I think we’re done here.”

“Grand,” Raphael drawled, turning on his heel. “How about we hit up Harrod’s before leaving?”

Uriel remained where she was in front of the counter, her eyes still fixed on Aziraphale’s.

“You go ahead, Rafe,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll catch up. I want to buy a book.”

Aziraphale waited until the door had swung shut behind Raphael, and then planted both hands on the desk as he leaned toward her. If a bit of menace was in order, so be it.

“You never were one for recreational reading,” he said coldly, “so please state your business.”

“Tell me why,” Uriel said simply. She retracted her wings, seeming suddenly very small.

Aziraphale frowned at her, uncertain. “I beg your pardon? What do you mean, exactly?”

“I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. You’re too fucking stubborn for that. But what’s important is _why_. Why are you doing this? Why the fuck are you willing to risk everything for him?” Uriel asked, her voice catching strangely.

Aziraphale paused, turning his head to stare between the shelves. He could almost see the _Folklore_ section.

“Because Crowley is everything,” he said, forcing out the words he’d been unable to speak on the bridge. “I can’t imagine going on without him. To hell with duty, isn’t that what Rafe was getting at? I made _Crowley_ my duty, and that was the end of it. Quite literally, too.”

Uriel listened patiently, and then scoffed to hide some rise of emotion that her eyes betrayed.

“You can’t say fuck duty and then assign yourself one in the same breath. It’s a choice. I had a choice once. You know what? I chose wrong. Don’t just stand there when it comes time to face those creeps who wanna take him, okay? Promise me. I should’ve…” Her voice finally broke, stark in the shop’s silence. “I should’ve Fallen. I didn’t. I regret…that I didn’t follow her down. So, yeah. That’s too much to unpack right now.”

Aziraphale remembered something then—something he did his best to forget every waking moment. They’d seen the Fall, all of them, but some from a closer vantage-point than others.

“Oh, my dear girl,” he whispered. “There was—that friend of yours, was it? I never knew.”

Uriel gave a strangled laugh, staring at her hands. Her voice didn’t break, but it wavered.

“Friend? Don’t be a prude, Az. Try _lover_. That’s what Tanith was. I have the most thankless job in creation. Dead fuckers who don’t wanna move on? Confused new souls who aren’t sure about this mortality shit? What’s a little lost-love trauma on top of that? _Friend_. Whatever. D’you expect me to believe that’s what Crawly is to _you_?”

Aziraphale considered her words. Pieces lay in various unfinished puzzles, but he only focused on the one that needed finishing. The one that, left incomplete, would have unthinkable consequences.

“What was it you asked me to do when push comes to shove—act? What else should I have bloody well _done_? Terms accepted, but only if you’ll promise to do the same.”

Uriel’s silver gaze darted up, her lips parted in shock. “I’ll—wait, what? Do the same with—my chance to follow her is _gone_ , didn’t you listen?”

Aziraphale didn’t quite snap at her, but his tone was sharp. “How blind do you think I am?”

“Nuh-uh. No way.” Uriel looked away and shut her eyes, but Aziraphale had already seen her tears. “I’m not about giving second chances, not to our kind. Not in the contract.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, reaching to cover her clasped hands with one of his. “Of all the times to take a chance, what better than seven years to the day since the world didn’t end?”

When she spoke again, Uriel sounded pained. “Of the two of us, you’re most likely to get close enough to her to talk. If they send her. I can’t say what minions they send on topside missions nowadays. They might’ve had a staffing reshuffle. Hastur and Ligur are proof enough of that.”

Aziraphale thought back to the previous days' conversations with Crowley.

_Dagon’s clerical assistant, unnamed and unmemorable. A demoness, no less. Perhaps..._

Uriel offered her hand, her gaze still watery when she met his eyes.

“Such a human thing, second chances,” Aziraphale said, shaking it. “Don’t you agree?”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Uriel replied, shaking in return. “Now where’s Self-Help? If I don’t have a book in tow, Rafe will call bullshit.”


	4. FRIDAY, 22 AUGUST 1997

Crowley was late for their afternoon meeting. He had agreed to come to the bookshop. 

It was disconcerting to say the least, so Aziraphale rang Crowley’s number. No answer.

The memory of how Crowley had been on the bridge, that gradual slide into hopelessness, spurred Aziraphale into action. He grabbed his coat, flipped the shop sign, and rushed out.

Mayfair wasn’t that far a walk when all was said and done, and he could cut through St. James’s.

On reaching Crowley’s doorstep, Aziraphale laid on the bell until he was sure the downstairs neighbor would find him a nuisance. He wished the lock open and rushed up the stairs to Crowley’s flat, unlocking the second door without so much as knocking.

Crowley was sitting on the floor of his shining white apartment, surrounded by CDs. He’d obviously dumped the entire contents of his shelf onto the floor. He appeared to be sorting them, but not in a way that made any sense.

Aziraphale approached him slowly and dropped into a crouch once he’d gotten close enough.

“My dear, they’re already sorted,” he said softly. “Your system’s meticulous. I appreciate alphabetizing as much as the next person, maybe more.”

Crowley looked up from shuffling jewel cases. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. His eyes were glazed, pupils blown so wide that he looked more like a grass snake than a viper.

“Oh?” he said dismissively, dropping the cases in a clatter. “Then why are you never here?”

“Don’t be cruel,” Aziraphale admonished.

“No, really,” Crowley said, suddenly vicious enough to warrant treading with care. “Why’s it always got to be your place and not mine, eh? Tell me the last time we drank here.”

“Your flat’s too bright,” said Aziraphale, tersely, “even with the lights off. I’ve explained this.”

“Good job I can see in low light and all that,” Crowley muttered. “Yes, fine. You win that one.”

“It’s not about winning.” Aziraphale settled on the carpet, throwing caution to the wind as he leaned into Crowley’s shoulder. “Not in the slightest, do you understand?” He could have said more, but a lump rose in his throat. He had to pause and swallow it down.

Crowley turned his head, no longer stubbornly in profile. The tip of his tongue flicked across his lower lip, a sure sign that he’d decided to process Aziraphale’s reassurance.

“I feel so useless,” he said quietly, shoving at more cases with his bare foot. “ _Hopeless_.”

“Please say you haven’t been drinking without me,” said Aziraphale, deflecting with feigned mirth. “You might get your way. What’s on the rack?”

“That really nice port,” Crowley said, not quite smiling, “and you can’t have any till after.”

Aziraphale noted Crowley’s word choice, just barely managing to keep his composure.

“Don’t,” he murmured thickly. “Of all the things they’d take from you, don’t let it be your hope. For all you’ve been through, all you’ve suffered…you’ve never lost the will to carry on.” 

“Stiff upper lip, eh?” Crowley smiled at that, but he was still subdued. “Don’t you know why?”

_It’s the same reason I’ve never lost mine_ , Aziraphale thought, staring him in the eye.

“We’ve got to salvage this. I’m not angry with you for having hidden it. Crowley, _please_.” Aziraphale’s voice shook. He thought of Uriel, forever regretting her choice. “I promise to hold on. Do you?”

“You don’t get it, angel,” Crowley said bitterly. “It’s that you’re promising to hold _me_.”

Hurt lanced through Aziraphale’s stomach. He had never felt the urge to lash out at Crowley before, but the way he had just used that oft-tender endearment as a weapon brought him close. He curled his fingers into the carpet.

“Then you’d bloody well be promising to hold me, too. How’s that? Your chosen champion, sword lost and spirit broken at the sight of your despair. At the prospect of losing you. Am _I_ worthy?”

Crowley’s breath caught, but he didn’t immediately answer. He restacked the nearest cases.

“We must’ve been, once,” he said distantly, “to have done what we did. We could be again.”

“What choice do we have?” Aziraphale pleaded, eyes stinging. “You must know that—that if I can’t keep you here, I’d follow—”

Crowley’s eyes widened again, and he shook his head vehemently. “You didn’t know me then. Not your responsibility, d’you see? I wouldn’t have wished it on even a stranger.”

“No, you let me say it,” Aziraphale snapped. “I’d follow you down. Then or now, I would. Come Hell or high water. Well, shallow water. And we’ll be facing both, so…”

Crowley tipped sidelong, twisting with improbable swiftness, arms locking around Aziraphale’s shoulders. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, his labored breath hot as a brand.

Aziraphale froze for a moment before gathering Crowley close. He clung tightly in turn, bowing his head. How insincere his prayers had been, and how undeserving of the answer in his arms.


	5. SATURDAY, 23 AUGUST 1997

Given his own shocking breakdown, Aziraphale supposed it was Crowley’s turn to be pragmatic.

After reluctantly leaving Crowley’s flat the day before, Aziraphale hadn’t been sure Crowley would come by—whether he would consider their need for a meeting fulfilled or not.

But arrive he did, and would have been right on time if he’d come a day earlier. He carried a glossy hardcover in one hand and a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild’s finest in the other.

“They’ve scarcely bounced back from the phylloxera,” Crowley said apologetically, handing both book and wine to Aziraphale, “so this vintage might be subpar. The book’s just a convenient find. Said you liked my organizational methods, so how about my research?”

Aziraphale took that—and the way Crowley pushed his glasses into his hair—as sufficient apology. He lingered over the way Crowley smiled and bit his lip, the flash of one sharp eye-tooth unmistakably coy.

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asked, stepping aside to let him in, gesturing with the bottle. He set the book down on his paper-strewn desk and willed the wine and a pair of glasses from the cupboard onto the table in the back room. “Crowley?”

“Oh, er, sure,” Crowley faltered, pushing away from the doorframe. “You know me. Keen.”

Resolve shamelessly lost, Aziraphale tried not to think about what he’d nearly done there on the threshold, leading Crowley adamantly through to the back. Later, perhaps, if they were lucky—later, when Crowley was no longer marked for unspeakable—

He really had to stop thinking about that possibility, or he’d upset himself all over again.

They settled across from each other at the table. For some reason, it felt distressingly final, the dark room and the wine, the glow of Crowley’s unhidden eyes.

“Right,” Crowley said, summoning the book with a snap of his fingers. He opened it on the table, determinedly flipping pages. “This is a newer edition of those ballads. They’ve been translated into Modern English, so no more faffing about with that arcane Scots dialect.” He looked up, eyes glittering with mirth. “Not that it’s an issue for you.”

 _No_ , Aziraphale thought, taking his turn to worry at his lower lip, _but you are_.

Crowley lowered his eyes too quickly and fixed them on the page. “I need to walk you through everything they could possibly do to me,” he insisted. “Every twist and change.”

Aziraphale knew he had left the notebook in the pocket of his coat, so he went and fetched it, realizing only once he was halfway back that he could have just called it to his hand. Was he so addled by desire already, so distracted when there was so much, _much_ more at stake?

 _Focus_ , he told himself sternly, flipping open the notebook and settling into place again.

“They’ll put me in snake-form first,” Crowley began. “An adder or my usual, doesn’t matter. I’ll curl around your wrist. You just hold tight, shouldn’t be too hard. Try not to break my ribs.”

“What if they opt for something larger?” Aziraphale blurted. “Boa constrictor, python…?”

“You’ll manage,” Crowley snapped back. “Then, we’d be in danger of me breaking _your_ ribs, only not really. I wouldn’t hurt you, not if I had any presence of mind left.”

 _Bloody hell_ , Aziraphale thought, eyes stinging. _How could I have ever thought him lesser_?

“The various animal forms are carnivorous mammals,” Crowley forged on. He took a desperate gulp of wine, catching several droplets with the back of his hand. “Bear and lion seem consistent across the textual variants. I’m a bit...concerned about those, if I’m honest. Or they could just forego teeth and claws and go straight for the maggots.”

“As long as you’re vaguely human-shaped, that shouldn’t be difficult.”

“That’s the problem,” Crowley replied emphatically. “I very well might not be. If they go for the burning coal, I’ll be easier to drop. If they go for the red-hot brand, same deal.” He rubbed at his chin in agitation, sipping more wine. “They could turn me into a bonfire.”

“I won’t drop you,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I can weather burns far easier than the loss of you.”

Crowley set down his glass and slammed the book shut, wild-eyed in lieu of a coherent response.

“Angel, look,” he croaked, “do you have any idea you’re playing with fire already?”

“Had I known you then, I would have Fallen with you,” Aziraphale replied vehemently.

“I didn’t mean…” Crowley resumed his glass and knocked back the remainder. “Focus.”

“Careful,” Uriel chimed from the doorway. “No one usually listens to you, Az, but making statements like that could get you in really hot water. If someone less understanding than me happened to hear, of course.” She set appraising eyes on Crowley. “You’re in quite a state.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. They stung unbearably. He listened as Uriel crossed the room and took a seat on Crowley’s side of the table.

“So, like you said, let’s focus. The fairy queen,” Uriel continued, her voice soft and sympathetic. “It could be any demon willing to make the run, but I have a theory that it’ll be someone—or some _ones_ —close to you. Crowley, who’s your direct superior down there, I mean like...just below those nasty firebug Dukes they used to send.” 

“Dagon, Lord of the Files,” Crowley answered. “He’s about as merciful as a demon can be, so that’s not too bad. And if I remember correctly, his assistant’s almost _nice_. Wish I could remember her name. Red eyes and dark hair, sometimes a bird? As much as I’m sometimes a snake, anyway. She’s a real whiz at finding things. Took some of my template reform to heart.”

Uriel went very still. She blinked once, then again, and laughed softly. “Just my fucking luck.”

Aziraphale nodded grimly. “That’ll be your Tanith, won’t it? The one you mentioned before?”

“Hey, that rings a bell,” Crowley said. “Her signature was always really hard to read, but I could make out the _T_ just fine.” 

Aziraphale shot him as much of a warning glance as he could afford. “Now’s not the time.”

Crowley glanced at Uriel, who looked like she might cry, and then at Aziraphale, who was barely better off. 

“Gosh, I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, she didn’t Fall alone.”

Uriel took a deep breath, nodding resolutely at Aziraphale. “That’s what I’m here to prevent.”


	6. SUNDAY, 24 AUGUST 1997

By midnight, they had exhausted themselves. There was no conversation after that, and no attempt on Crowley’s part to leave. Wordlessly, he had risen from the table and offered Aziraphale his hand, with no explanation for where he intended them to go.

Aziraphale let himself be pulled along, almost tripping on the bottom step when Crowley started up the stairs. He had scarcely made use of the modest flat above the shop, if you could even call it that. It was more of a set of cramped storerooms with the closet retrofitted into a loo.

One of them must have willed the dust from the bedroom on their way up, but Aziraphale couldn’t have said which. The room was clean when they entered it, and the creak of the bed-springs as they sat down together was the only sign of the room’s disuse.

Crowley hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale wasn’t about to let him try.

“I’m tired of studying,” he said, sounding like a petulant student preparing for an exam. 

Aziraphale nodded blearily, lacing their fingers. “We’re as prepared as we can possibly be.”

Crowley yawned, chagrined, covering his mouth with his free hand. “I know you’re not in the habit of sleeping, but I’m knackered. Sorry to bore you, but I might pass out.” 

Aziraphale thought there would be nothing better or more comforting than holding a sleeping Crowley in his arms, but he couldn’t put that into words, not this late. Not this close.

“I won’t stop you, my dear,” he said. “In fact, it might behoove me to, er, try my hand at it.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Crowley murmured, nearly smiling. He wasn’t even trying this time, but Aziraphale still caught a glimpse of his teeth.

“Should we turn down the covers, or is this…” Aziraphale released Crowley’s hand and twisted awkwardly to tug the covers down off the pillows. His linens were always clean, at least, so there’d be no danger of Crowley ribbing him for that. “The mattress is old, I fear.”

“You’re comfortable enough,” Crowley answered, clearly lacking any filter at this level of exhaustion. He rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale froze for a moment, unable to prevent the spike of his pulse or the hitch in his breath. He wondered how much Crowley already knew, how useless it might be to hide.

“Don’t go thinking it’s just you,” Crowley said dryly. “It’s an interesting conundrum, isn’t it.”

 _Not now,_ Aziraphale thought, squeezing his eyes shut. _When you can be certain your arms are safe for him, then you can consider further._

“We should try to get a little sleep,” he said, brushing Crowley’s hair off his forehead.

“Let me tempt you to lunch tomorrow?” Crowley found his hand among the covers and held it.

“You can tempt me to anything you wish as long as you’ll be quiet,” Aziraphale sighed, reluctantly disentangling himself from Crowley. He rose to finish pulling the covers down, and then settled again. He crawled to the far side of the bed so that Crowley could follow.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Crowley muttered, cuddling up to Aziraphale almost shyly.

Aziraphale pinched his side, and then soothed it with a touch. “Quiet. But hold me all you like.”

Unlike Crowley, who spent seven hours dead to the world, Aziraphale didn’t sleep. He tried, but the weight of Crowley in his arms, so trusting, made it impossible to think of anything but what he stood to lose. He knew now what a fool he’d been, oblivious beyond forgiving.

When the first light of dawn filtered through his tattered curtains, Aziraphale extracted himself from Crowley’s clinging sprawl and made his way downstairs. The kitchenette was in no better shape dust-wise, so he saw to that first. He had no recourse to breakfast preparation without cheating, so he made tea the old-fashioned way before miracling a tray of scones.

He was pleased with himself; they were warm, but not enough to melt the clotted cream.

Crowley peered around the doorway without warning, yawning widely, and then stepped into the kitchen. His arms were around Aziraphale’s waist before Aziraphale could protest that the tea might spill.

“Isn’t this how you’re s’posed to do it?” Crowley asked, his words muffled in Aziraphale’s hair.

“We might have got things somewhat out of order,” Aziraphale said, rattling the tray for emphasis. “My dear, this needs to get to the table before everything’s gone cold.”

Crowley made a sound of protest, but he unwound himself from Aziraphale and led the way to the back room. They hadn’t even bothered to clear the book and wine bottles from the table, so Crowley saw to that while Aziraphale waited. It was a relief to set the tray down.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to ask where Crowley had stashed the book; he had long since committed the necessary lines to memory. They ate with very little in the way of conversation, although Crowley made several attempts at small talk, mostly about breakfast itself.

Once they’d finished, Crowley cleared the dishes away, his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder an adamant _stay put_. From the sound of things, he miracled them clean and into the cupboard once he’d rounded the corner. No washing-up was ever so swift.

Aziraphale licked a speck of cream from the corner of his mouth, trying to avoid the reality that was swiftly creeping back in. They now had less than forty-eight hours.

“I’d rather we didn’t sit around moping,” Crowley said, brushing his hands off as he returned.

“Then what would you like to do?” Aziraphale asked. “I remain entirely at your mercy.”

“Don’t start,” Crowley scolded. “It’s too early for lunch. There's no point in going our separate ways to freshen up if we’ll be back in an hour.”

“You’ve just done the washing-up without even looking at the sink. I’m sure you can give yourself the same treatment,” said Aziraphale, and took care of his own grooming in a blink.

“Not fair,” Crowley said, following suit. “You know I’m quite partial to that awful waistcoat.”

“Entirely fair,” Aziraphale countered. “Seeing as I’m quite partial to you no matter the clothes.”

“Now that’s just low.” Crowley was smiling now, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile back. 

Aziraphale wanted very much to reach out, to have him in his arms again, but at that rate they’d get nowhere other than back upstairs. He patted the table to steady himself.

 _The closest thing you’ll ever have to a lover,_ Aziraphale thought, _but it going both ways? That’s uncertain at best._

“We could go antiquing in Portobello Road,” Crowley said. “Prime snuffbox hunting, angel.”

Aziraphale got to his feet, offering Crowley his arm. “I’d rather avoid the distraction. One of the museums, perhaps?” He stopped shy of suggesting St. James’s Park, as they had spent entirely too much time there for reconnaissance. “It’s your choice, dear boy. I insist.”

“My last supper, as it were,” Crowley said. Aziraphale must have made some expression of discomfort. “Kidding. I’m kidding, angel.”

“You had better well be,” Aziraphale said, steering him for the shop floor and onward to the front door. “At this rate, your indecisiveness is killing time. We’re going to stroll Green Park till it’s time to pop over to the Ritz.”

“Thought you said it was up to me,” Crowley sighed, but he was smiling whether he knew it or not.

Green Park was within a stone’s throw of their lunch plans, and it was unlikely to feel quite as fraught as their usual preference for St. James’s. Immediately on passing through the gate, Crowley had a number of grievances to air at the groundskeepers. It was a good job none of them were within earshot, lest they get an earful about their ill-behaved tulips.

“I doubt that comportment is something the gardeners even think about,” Aziraphale reassured him. “It’s nearly time for lunch. Do you think we ought to call ahead for once?”

Crowley gave him a deadpan look. “Right, because the whole world knows it’s important?”

“It is important,” Aziraphale insisted. “Unless you’d like to chance your usual waltzing in.”

“I don’t leave anything to chance,” Crowley said, his eyes determinedly straight ahead as he turned them around on the walkway and back in the direction of the gate.

For a Sunday afternoon, the Palm Court dining room was surprisingly empty. There were a few other couples scattered here and there, but most of the tables sat pristine and unoccupied.

Instinctively, Aziraphale grasped the crook of Crowley’s arm. The maître d’ that greeted and seated them wasn’t familiar, but the server who arrived with with menu placards was.

“Good afternoon,” said Rashid, as politely restrained as ever. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Will it be the usual set spreads, or would you rather order à la carte?”

“The Champagne Celebration Tea should do it, don’t you think?” Crowley asked Aziraphale.

Aziraphale felt suddenly dizzy; he hadn’t realized until now how much he had to lose. Everyone who knew them thought of them as a pair—and not just that, but a _couple_. Everyone would wonder where Crowley had gone, and why Aziraphale hadn’t gone with him.

“This is for you,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion. “Entirely your choice, my dear.”

Rashid glanced between them. “Very good. I’ll ask if the manager can spare me for your table.” He took back the placards with efficient grace, tucking them under his arm. “If this is an anniversary, I’ll upgrade the champagne from house standard to something on reserve.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s arm tighten around his, but his vision was too misted to entirely comprehend Crowley’s expression. He saw concern and care, but those were always present, so that was nothing to go on. He simply squeezed Crowley’s forearm in return.

“Yeah,” Crowley said to Rashid. “Something like that, long story. Thanks, and please do.”

“If there’s a time to splash out more than usual, I’m sure it’d be now,” Aziraphale managed, rougher than usual, but still composed.

“With all due respect,” Rashid said with faint amusement, “that’s what you do every time.”

“I took care of breakfast, so the lunch tab’s his,” Aziraphale tilted his head at Crowley.

“The lunch tab’s always mine, angel,” said Crowley, indignant but unquestionably fond.

As Rashid strode away, Crowley’s focus shifted back to Aziraphale, ferocious and intent.

“There’s no turning back,” he said, the most earnest he had ever been, “from any of this.”

“The choice has been seven years in the making,” Aziraphale replied. “Or six-thousand-odd, if you want to give us that much credit. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure I would, but—” he nodded at Crowley, resolute despite his tears “—I know where I stand, and it’s with you.”


	7. MONDAY, 25 AUGUST 1997

Aziraphale didn’t speak when Monday dawned. Impossible, what with Crowley so soundly asleep in his arms. He already knew that he wanted this to be every morning for the remainder of his existence, whatever that might mean.

Crowley stirred in his sleep, slowly waking, nuzzling closer into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale’s chest ached. Logically speaking, there was nothing Crowley could do; he was at Hell’s whims. Maybe he would have the presence of mind to cooperate, but it was possible he wouldn’t. The thought of Crowley robbed of his faculties was terrifying.

“G’morning, angel,” Crowley mumbled, stretching leisurely against Aziraphale’s front.

Aziraphale still couldn’t speak, his lungs seizing with every breath. He wrapped both arms around Crowley, pulling him close, tangling their legs.

“When this is over, wherever we may be,” he finally managed, “I’ll see to it that _this_...”

Crowley snorted affectionately, but he clung more tightly, too. “Don’t pretend you’re a prude.”

“I’ll see to it we spend our mornings together, whatever that may entail,” Aziraphale continued, a little breathlessly. “Is that better? I wouldn’t want to presume, dear boy. You’ve never seemed...inclined, as it were. No more than I’ve been.”

“Oh, you’ve _been_ ,” Crowley said, pleased with himself. “The way you look at me is—”

“I can’t in good conscience permit this to continue,” Aziraphale blurted, awkwardly rolling away. He got out of bed and went to the dingy window, staring at the brightness outside.

“It’s almost noon, d’you realize,” Crowley said, the bed creaking as he got up. “Slothful.”

When Aziraphale glanced at him, he was wearing a peculiar, distinctly hurt expression. 

“Inasmuch as I’ll do everything in my power to prevent it,” Aziraphale said, pained, “there is a chance that I’ll lose you tonight. I couldn’t bear to begin this before—listen, tomorrow you’ll have me in any way you wish. I swear it.”

“No first-and-last kiss, then?” Crowley asked, turning away, attempting to mask his grief.

Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s hand, lifting it to his mouth, kissing Crowley’s knuckles tenderly.

“I won’t risk breaking my heart,” he vowed, “or yours, for that matter. That’s all there is to it.”

Crowley used the leverage of that contact to pull Aziraphale to him. The brush of Crowley’s mouth was almost too brief to register, but Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I need you so much it hurts,” he hissed bitterly, “and it’s a kind of pain I can’t wish away.”

Aziraphale tangled his fingers in Crowley’s hair as he pressed their foreheads together. The closeness was almost too much to bear without kissing him again.

“How do you think I feel, then?” Aziraphale asked. “Knowing that I’ve wasted six thousand years—no, _more_ —and, just when I’ve come to my senses, it turns out I might lose you if I can’t hold you tightly enough?”

Crowley exhaled and stepped back, dropping Aziraphale’s hand. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

Aziraphale took Crowley by the shoulders, spun him around, and steered him toward the door.

“There’s no sense in continuing this conversation, seeing as we don’t yet know the outcome,” he said. “I, for one, would like to give Hell a run for their money.”

Once they were downstairs, Aziraphale set about gathering the books they’d been using for reference and brought them to the back room. Ever eager to avoid further unpleasantness, Crowley busied himself with making tea. He returned with two mugs in hand.

Aziraphale sat down heavily. “If there’s anything we haven’t covered, anything at all, now is the time to discuss it. I haven’t asked you the appointed time. Precise and specific.”

“Don’t you mean nice and accurate?” Crowley asked wryly. “Midnight. It’s in all the stories. Humans love midnight for this sort of thing, and my people thought, why not? We should probably bring dry clothes, too. I’m not sure if the turning into a naked knight part will happen, but it’s good to be prepared.” His lips quirked. “We can hope?”

The whole speech, in its bewildering sincerity, startled Aziraphale into helpless laughter. He rested his elbows on his knees and shook with it.

“No, hey—” Crowley reached out, before Aziraphale even realized how quickly he was approaching hysteria. “It’s just the facts. You asked for specificity.”

Aziraphale managed to get a grip on himself. He sat up and forced himself to breathe.

“I’ll bring my coat,” he said decisively, glancing at the clock. “It’s coming on one.”

“Either we sleep through the next eleven-ish hours,” Crowley said, “or we go to the park and just...wait it out. I can’t think of many other places I’d rather be with you.”

“I’m aware of how hypocritical this will make me sound,” Aziraphale countered, “but let’s go back to bed. I couldn’t bear to be near anyone but you until it’s time.”

Crowley gave him a sincere, but dubious look. “You’re sure, angel? I mean, I’m up for that, maybe even prefer it, but...” He stifled a burst of laughter. “You’re relentless.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale snapped, worn too thin to keep from lashing out. “Please.”

Too quickly for comfort, Crowley’s expression faded from facetiousness into sheer anguish.

“Don’t think it won’t be hell for me, too,” he shot back. “This is already worse than anything—”

“My dear,” Aziraphale pleaded, biting down on his lip in a vain attempt to hold back words and tears both, “would you just let me hold you?”

“Seems you’ll be doing a lot of that,” said Crowley, in relieved defeat, “and how can I say no?”

He got up and rounded the table before Aziraphale could even rise, stepping unbearably close.

Aziraphale pulled him down into his lap, folding Crowley in his embrace, pressing his face into Crowley’s shoulder. How many times had he wanted this very thing, and how fervently had he denied himself for fear of being pushed away?

“Upstairs,” Crowley muttered, and, with convenient abruptness, that was where they were.

They stayed there, wordlessly clinging. There was nothing more to stay, no further closeness they could stand. Nothing they could begin and complete in the hours they had left.

Sleep must have come easily this time. When Aziraphale opened his eyes with a start, Crowley was still curled against his chest, and it was dusk. He stared accusingly at the curtains.

Bitter grief caught in his throat, but he swallowed it down. _We have a chance. More than a chance, given what we are to each other. Surely the child in the story is a metaphor, a way to explain the depth of their bond within the constraints of meter and rhyme_.

“I can hear you thinking again,” Crowley said, his words startling in the silence. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s dark,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes darting to the ancient clock. “What time…”

Crowley checked his watch. “We have about two hours, but that’s a liberal estimate.”

Aziraphale sat up with difficulty; it felt like something far heavier than Crowley was pressing down on his chest. “Do you think we ought to bring the books? I know the words by heart, but would there be any advantage, any at all, to have them?”

“Let them be,” Crowley said, rising with an ease that Aziraphale envied, “but bring the coat.”

Aziraphale stood. With a blink, he was dressed, the coat draped over his arm. He put it on as he watched Crowley’s black suit lose its wrinkles, the stark white of Crowley’s pristine shirt as startling as his eyes. Sunglasses last, his inevitable armor. 

Aziraphale fought the urge to reach out and remove them. Should this be the last time, he wanted to see as much as he could. Instead, he froze the frame: Crowley as he had always known him, immaculate, armored, but still open, flashing a faint smile. He filed it away.

“We should go,” Crowley said, gesturing at the door. “Better to turn up early, don’t you think?”

Rather than taking the Bentley, they walked. If Aziraphale had to return alone, he would need to have it towed. That would be a gross indignity for Crowley’s faithful transport.

 _Return alone_ , he thought, something turning at the back of his mind. _No. Given the choice, I won’t return at all. I’ve chosen already._

As if he had heard, or perhaps just perceived the idea, Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands.

“I don’t know if they’d let you,” he said softly, “or if there’d even be anything left of me.”

Aziraphale exhaled stubbornly. “They’d have to try and stop me, I can tell you that much.”

Crowley nodded and squeezed Aziraphale’s hands before he released them, as if accepting.

As they made their way downstairs and through the darkened shop, Aziraphale wondered what frames Crowley would freeze. The stacks of books, dourly forbidding; the bell’s last tinny rattle as they walked out. The shadows of trees cast by Soho’s sleepless neon lights.

The gates of St. James’s Park were locked by the time they arrived, but such a barrier posed no obstacle. They cleared the bars with a thought, passing through like ghosts.

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale murmured. The walkway ahead was cast in a bluish glow.

Crowley hissed, recoiling slightly from what lay a short distance ahead. “They’re here already.”

Aziraphale took several steps forward, squinting. The bridge wasn’t quite visible, but the reddish aura emanating from the vicinity of the water was unmistakable.

“Stay behind me,” he insisted, continuing to walk. “Under no circumstances take the lead.”

With a touch of weary sarcasm, Crowley chuckled. “Get thee behind me, Satan, is that it?”

“If you don’t take this with even a modicum of seriousness,” Aziraphale snapped, “then I shudder to think what our chances—” 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley panted, catching up with Aziraphale’s furious pace. “I couldn’t resist.”

 _Nor could I_ , Aziraphale thought, striding until the walkway met the Blue Bridge’s rise. _I’ll be damned indeed if they think they can take you. If they think they can part us._

There were three figures in the middle of the bridge, poised at the apex in a halo of muted scarlet. Behind them, the opposite side of the Blue Bridge no longer led to the walkway. 

The figure in the middle was certainly dressed for the occasion. She wore draped fabric beneath charred armor, and her hair was pulled back into an intricate braid. The demon on her left was tall, looming over her even with his shoulders hunched. The one on the right was short and squat compared to his companion, but still taller.

“That’ll be her,” Crowley whispered, more in curiosity than terror. “I never do forget a face.”

“Tanith,” Aziraphale said, grasping Crowley’s hand as they approached up the bridge’s gentle slope. “What an absolute pleasure to meet you. Uriel speaks so very highly.”

The demoness was implacable, her lovely features frozen, red eyes aglow. She glanced at her companions, who were lamentably recognizable: Hastur to her left, and Ligur to her right.

“Principality,” Tanith said, advancing a single step, “do you come as Crawly’s champion?”

Aziraphale nodded, trying his best to ignore the other demons’ vicious snickering. “I do.”

“Who’d have thunk it,” Ligur cackled, clapping in delight. “A two-fer-one show.”

Hastur, anything but amused, stomped on the wooden planks beneath their feet. His fury twas bewildering, at least until Aziraphale remembered what Crowley had done to Ligur and _nearly_ done to him.

“If you don’t shut your bloody trap,” Hastur seethed, “you’ll ruin it for everyone.”

“Gents,” Tanith said, something about her tone less imposing than before. “Enough. Leave your petty desire for vengeance out of this.”

“She’s not actually very formal,” Crowley whispered. “From what I remember, she’s—”

“Would you speak, Crawly?” asked Tanith, curtly. “What would the Tithe make known?”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, searching for signs of distress. Instead, he saw only regret.

“Not much, really,” Crowley said after a moment’s pause. “Just that this is pointless.”

Unable to bear it a moment longer, Aziraphale drew Crowley into his arms. “Well?”

“You must hold him through the changes,” Tanith warned. “If you let go, all is lost.”

Without warning, there was a burst of scorching wind that came from no earthly source.

When Aziraphale regained his footing, his right arm was weighed down by Crowley’s coils. He drew his arm close to his chest, cupping Crowley’s head with his free hand. He ran two fingers over Crowley’s sleek scales.

Crowley’s eyes were unchanged, were _his_.

“Kinda cute, ain’t he?” Ligur mused, squinting to get a better look. “They ain’t so bad, snakes.”

Hastur made a sound laced with such intense and impotent rage that even Tanith flinched. He was glowering directly at Crowley, his murderous intent abundantly clear.

“If you don’t cut the chatter, I swear by every damned soul in Dis I’ll rip out your heart.”

“Dunt think I got one, but yer welcome to try,” replied Ligur, sounding oddly enthusiastic. His toothy leer was nothing like Crowley’s smile. The curve of his lips was similar, maybe, but there was something warped in the shape of it, glee at the suffering he observed.

“Here’s a little something to switch it up,” Tanith said, ignoring her escorts, and snapped.

Aziraphale staggered as Crowley changed once again: back to his human form, all his weight pressing on Aziraphale’s chest and arms. His eyes were too wide for comfort, and he was shaking. Aziraphale had never seen him in such a state post-transformation.

“That wasn’t great,” Crowley said, miserably short of breath. “Feels different from doing it myself. Less like I have a chance at getting back to what I was, more like I might—”

“He ain’t ever liked bein’ that thing with the maggots,” Ligur heckled. “Make ’im do that one!”

Aziraphale braced himself, gathering Crowley to his chest. Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation of his arms being spread wide, forced to snapping from his joints if he’d been human. Crowley’s eldritch form was immense and writhing, shedding maggots like blood. He’d seen it that time at Tadfield Manor, of course—contained and still man-shaped, just a flash.

Aziraphale clung, not daring to close his eyes. The core of what he held was vaguely humanoid, Crowley’s limbs desperately seeking him, so he focused on that. For as tightly as he squeezed, he still barely kept hold of Crowley when he shrank again.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” Tanith appraised, “but what if I said some part of him still remembers what he was? What he could have remained?”

“No, no, no,” Crowley begged, winding his arms fiercely around Aziraphale’s neck. His shuddering exhalation was almost a sob. “Don’t make me— _don’t_ —”

The blast Tanith sent this time hit them with a roaring ring, deafening even to Aziraphale’s ears.

Crowley had no limbs, not anymore, so Aziraphale clung to one blinding, burnished wing. It beat wildly in the circle of his arms, almost threw him to the ground. The flames licking from the wheel’s center, from this thing—no, from _Crowley_ —caused Aziraphale no pain. 

Still, Crowley’s innumerable wings beat in terror, leaving Aziraphale with no more than two handfuls of pinfeathers when he transformed again. He fell so hard that Aziraphale hit the ground with him. Their fingers scarcely touched, on hanging by mere tips.

Crowley wasn’t human. He had the shape of one, made of hellfire rather than flesh. He crackled and sputtered, scorching Aziraphale’s exposed skin until he screamed with the agony of it.

Tanith was staring down at Aziraphale where he lay pinned by living flames, her expression troubled. There was a chance she was brooding on exactly what Aziraphale needed her to remember.

“Without him,” Aziraphale panted, “I couldn’t go on. It would destroy me, I think. I’m sure you must understand. I’m given to believe you might, at any rate.”

Tanith’s controlled demeanor unraveled, Crowley’s flames illuminating her wounded rage.

“This is unbecoming in a Principality, I’ve gotta say,” she sneered. “You’d better watch what comes out of your mouth next, or I’ll—”

“Would you force him to Fall again?” Aziraphale shouted, engulfed for a moment in another of Crowley’s wild lashings-out. “Force yourself to relive it? The loss of her, what it meant when she didn’t follow? Don’t you _dare_ think I didn’t go to the trouble of asking—”

“That’s not fair,” said Tanith, trembling and wretched. “What did she tell you, _what_ —”

“Uriel still loves you,” Aziraphale replied brokenly, “just as much as I’ll always love Crowley.” 

While Tanith looked on in tearful dismay, Aziraphale caught Crowley, flickering as low now as clustered coals, beneath the arms. He hauled him up with what strength he had left, making for the bridge’s railing. Healing burns as he’d sustained them had come at a cost, and he felt depleted, so utterly _exhausted_ that it would be a relief to fall.

Hastur raged as Aziraphale vaulted his smoldering beloved over and into filthy, shallow water. He spread his wings to clear the railing, still holding Crowley fast—he couldn’t be sure whether he held the charred remnants of a fire or Crowley as he knew him, but there was no time for doubt.

They landed with an unceremonious splash, and Aziraphale withdrew his wings.

Rolling Crowley under was as easy as dreaming in comparison to the rest, given he no longer struggled. The water bubbled and hissed above them, but Aziraphale couldn’t see much from beneath the debris-littered murk. Crowley had him pinned to the weedy bottom

Crowley’s limbs were still heated, but they were smooth again—bare skin where coals had been.

They resurfaced gracelessly, sputtering as they regained their joint footing. Crowley spat water and duckweed, frantically gasping. Somehow he, too, had never once let go.

Aziraphale didn’t have the strength for panic. He took only as much time as necessary to hold Crowley at arms’ length, waist-deep in the water, feet sinking slightly into the mud.

Crowley was naked but intact, already shivering so hard that his teeth chattered. His eyes were wide and a touch feral, but they were his own. He was aware.

Faint with relief, Aziraphale knew that he couldn’t crumple on the spot. They’d sink back into the water, and he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to rise swiftly. He shed his sodden camelhair coat and wrapped it around Crowley’s shoulders.

“It’s even green,” he said with apologetic shock, indicating the gloss of algae and duckweed. His voice broke, so he fell forward and clung to Crowley, trembling. “Crowley, _oh_. I love you, I’m so very sorry, I _love_ — ” 

“I heard, angel,” Crowley coughed, breaking into an exhausted grin. “Every last word of it.”

“Would it be presumptuous of me, my dear,” Aziraphale said brokenly, “if I were to…”

One step ahead, Crowley tilted his head and caught Aziraphale’s mouth in a crushing kiss.

Aziraphale clung to him, pond-slime be damned, too overwhelmed to do anything but kiss him with all the strength he had left. They were filthy, and it didn’t even matter. Nothing could possibly have mattered less.

“I don’t know if a shower’s going to cover this,” Crowley mumbled, wobbling on his feet.

“I could miracle it away,” Aziraphale answered, grateful beyond comprehension, “but we’d both always know it was there. Let’s get home, at least.”

“Maybe still miracle it away,” Crowley muttered as Aziraphale helped him stumble toward the bank. “We can shower away your blessed memory, how’s that?”


	8. EPILOGUE (TUESDAY AGAIN)

Somewhere along the way, they agreed that Crowley’s shower would be better suited than Aziraphale’s. It was definitely far less dusty.

They’d mostly regained their composure by the time they reached Mayfair. Sopping wet and stained green, they drew the attention of the few pub-stragglers who were still out.

Aziraphale didn’t let go of Crowley’s hand. His palms were blistered and raw from the last few moments of burning, but the pain barely registered. When Crowley noticed, he healed them.

Crowley insisted that they at least miracle away the muck on their shoes and the residual mud that dripped from them before they entered his flat. 

_It won’t do much good_ , Aziraphale thought, but he obliged without thinking. He realized only when black spots danced across his field of vision that he’d already been exhausted. Another miracle had done nothing for his chances of staying upright.

When his vision cleared again, he realized he’d fallen against the doorframe.

Crowley was murmuring his name as if he couldn’t remember any other words. He touched Aziraphale’s face gently, brushing away mud and tear-tracks with shaking fingertips.

“I’m all right,” Aziraphale insisted soothingly, caressing Crowley’s face in kind. “Just tired.”

Despite Aziraphale’s reassurances, Crowley hooked his arm through Aziraphale’s. He practically had to hold him up as they made their way to the bathroom.

Aziraphale’s usual insistence on straightening up fell to the wayside when faced with the necessity of ridding himself of sodden, filthy clothes. He stepped into a shower that suddenly ran so hot it steamed—Crowley’s doing, certainly, seeing as Aziraphale hadn’t turned on the taps.

For a moment, they just held each other under the spray, letting water sluice away whatever remnants their less-than-thorough miracling had missed. Crowley’s skin felt nearly as hot as it had during their ordeal, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but kiss reverently from Crowley’s shoulder up to his earlobe. He wanted to undo every trace of what had been done.

Crowley pressed flush against him, restlessly squirming. “Stop wasting time,” he pleaded, almost hissing the first word, winding his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “I want you.”

Aziraphale turned Crowley in his arms. He traced Crowley’s hip, damp and lovely, and then ran his fingers across Crowley’s stomach, feeling the muscles twitch.

Crowley whimpered, more petulant than annoyed. “Leave it to you to dither even over this.”

Aziraphale nodded, too entranced to argue, pressing another kiss to Crowley’s neck as he moved his hand downward. He trailed his fingers up the underside of Crowley’s erection, questioning.

Crowley’s desperate stammer was answer enough. “Yes, I want you to—oh, I want— _please_.”

“How long I’ve wanted you,” Aziraphale whispered, mindlessly nuzzling Crowley’s ear as he worked his hand in a first, cautious stroke, “doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“I still—” Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, the air punched out of him “—want to know.”

Aziraphale picked up his pace, aware that Crowley had begun to shake with the effort of holding back. Aziraphale’s arousal was urgent, staggeringly so, but Crowley mattered far too much.

“My dear, don’t,” he murmured against Crowley’s flushed cheek, coaxing him. “You can let go.”

Aziraphale brushed his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock, squeezing more firmly when the hitch in Crowley’s soft, desperate gasps broke on a groan. Easy, then, so astonishingly easy to wrap his free arm more tightly around Crowley’s chest and hold him through it.

“Didn’t…” Crowley tried to speak, but he sobbed when Aziraphale teased another tremor from him. “Didn’t get to say it back there,” he panted, head tipping back against Aziraphale’s shoulder, “so, you know—I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale breathed, thrusting in sheer relief when Crowley reached behind with one slippery, shaking hand and squeezed the back of his thigh. “ _Oh_.”

Crowley turned to face him and reached down. He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, an absurdly innocent gesture given that he had Aziraphale’s cock in his hand.

“You deserve just about anything I can imagine trying on you,” he said, lips still pressed to Aziraphale’s cheek. He worked his hand more insistently. “How’s this…”

“Fine,” Aziraphale gasped, leaning forward to seek Crowley’s mouth, running his tongue across the exposed line of Crowley’s teeth. “It would be just perfect if you gave me a little more—Crowley, Crowley, _please_ —”

He hadn’t been prepared for the suddenness of it, the all-consuming, helpless _awe_.

“Hey, stay with me,” Crowley said, giving Aziraphale one last stroke. He leaned into Aziraphale until the slick press of their bodies was the only thing grounding them.

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeated, still holding Crowley fast. “Of course I’ll stay.”


End file.
